


To the drawing board

by Thesherlockholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Ficlets, Teenlock, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-09-28 10:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17181251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Thesherlockholmes
Summary: Drabbles, small scenes, experiments, little thoughts, random writing that may or may not end up in one of my other official works. Probably mostly teenlock as that's what I tend to enjoy writing most.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock sat at the wooden desk, the hot summer air warming the room to almost stifling coming in through the window he had thrown open in his anger. His picked at the skin of his finger with his nail- a twitch of sorts, a twitch of contemplation and restlessness. In the darkness, the mess in the room didn't bother him as it usually would. (Coming in, knocking over whatever he could reach, throwing what couldn't be tipped, pushing open the window- something more dramatic stopped by the desk he would have to climb over). Scratching at the table now, tracing the ruts in the dark wood. Going faster and faster, until he pushed himself away from the desk the chair scraping the floor. Standing up in record speed, picking up the chair which at that moment seemed so pointless and slamming it against the wall. Over and over until it was left in smithereens at his feet only a few scuffs in the perfectly painted wall. He glared at them then turning away to the rest of the room. Papers scattered on the floor, bedclothes askew, a painting on the floor, his violin thrown carelessly onto the couch whose pillows littered the floor. A representation of the chaos he felt, now sitting around him. He should just join it, no point being above it. And so, he sunk down to the floor staring blankly at the room- the rest of the world was above, around, and against him.


	2. Chapter 2

"Tell me, would you, what exactly you thought you were doing?" asked Mycroft, looking scornfully down at Sherlock who was currently dripping muddy water onto the oriental rug in the entryway.   
"Keep it down!" hissed Sherlock glancing around for signs of his father.  
"Luckily for you he's out of town. Now stop evading the question and answer quickly- or else he'll know." Sherlock stepped off the rug onto the hard wood.   
"I was trying to catch the dog. Without it the case couldn't be solved."  
"And it wouldn't have been anyway. Do you honestly think you could outthink the police? Really Sherlock. Now go to your room and clean up."  
Sherlock had already turned away and was stomping up the stairs.   
"I won't be home for the next few weeks. Mind the staff." Sherlock ignored him and rounded the corner at the top of the stairs. 

In his room, he discarded his ruined clothes into the waste basket- no use even to put them through the laundry. His hair was matted with mud. He ran the shower and got in, soon scrubbing within an inch of causing himself to bleed (not necessary at all). Despite his attempts at washing his hair chunks of mud were still in it and he finally gave up trying to clean it. He dried and changed into jeans a sweatshirt, a pleasure to wear only when his father wasn't home.


	3. Chapter 3

Scattered, shattered, everything was everywhere. No order. His thoughts cracked in the middle like a broken mirror. Aching head he couldn't think. Thoughts were going round and round in absolute silence. Sitting in the open window, legs hanging out against the brick off the house, he smoked his fifth (smuggled) cigarette in a row. Breathing in and out, which would otherwise be erratic without the inhalation of nicotine and exhalation of smoke into the freezing night air. The stars were visible far out in the small village in the country, so numerous above his head, completely irrelevant to anything practical on Earth. There was no one. No one here or out there for him. He was, it seemed, destined to be alone for the rest of his precarious existence. Alone was what he had, it was what protected him. A derisive exhale. Hardly believable. A mantra he tried to convince himself of but never trulyninternalised. Or perhaps he had. There was no telling at ten after two for the third night in a row. Sherlock swung his legs back into the window, put out the cigarette on the brick and let it drop into the bushes below. Enough for tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

The rain was drenching him through his pea coat and sweat shirt. He should find an awning to stand under, but that would require getting up from the cement and out of the alley. Too much effort. His head rolled back, a groan escaping from the raging headache, rain pounding his face. Slumped against the building, he was overcome with numbness, and then a light from the street.  _Mycroft_ __?


	5. Chapter 5

He couldn't sleep. He couldn't think either. The words on the pages in front of him had long since become blurred for lack of concentration, exhaustion. He was sure thoughts were flying around in his head but perhaps they were so loud they had become silent. A headache raged but he couldn't, wouldn't, lay his head down. He stared at the ceiling. Could he really see the outlines in the room or was it just his imagination filling in the information? Everything was silent. It definitely made him uneasy. There was too much uncertainty in it. No excitement for tomorrow, just the thought that it's would come and pass no matter what he did. He effected nothing. The sheets rustled as he turned- left side, right side. His mind was loud now. Screaming at him not to sleep despite the exhaustion. He got up then, paced back and forth. Opened the window, flooding the room with cold. Doing anything at all in his restlessness. He couldn't piece one thought to the next, no logic. Was this it? The final break? Or one of many? Pulling his hair in frustration at the ache, he wanted to scream. All that came out was a sob, a terrible sound, one of the worst. He was freezing now, shivering huddled in a corner.He head hit his knees and then his side found the floor. Sideways he saw the curtains fluttering and the desk with piles of books. All of it seemed useless, blurring, and then- gone.


	6. New Year's

_10...9...8_

 

Shouts and voices came from the crowd inside the estate. They were all gathered around the television watching a New Year's program drinking champagne and being generally _too boring._  Sherlock had left a while ago, going onto the quiet empty back lawn. He'd sat down behind a tree, hidden from the guests and lit a cigarette. No one minded that he had left. They were probably gladdened by his absence. Good for them then. Mycroft had promised to come but hadn't shown. His father was acting the perfect host, his mother hanging on his arm for the majority of the evening. A quartet could be heard playing Beethoven. His year... how had it been? 

School had been as miserable and unbearable as ever, with as many near misses equaling catches. Studies slipping as he fell into his mind and away from any ability to concentrate.

Coming home for weekends, spending them in his room.

No one to talk to. No one.

 

_7...6...5_

 

Wasn't one supposed to make resolutions for the New Year? There seemed to be no point.

 

_4...3...2_

 

 _"_ You shouldn't smoke, you know."

"Mycroft?" 

 

_1_

 

Cheers and laughter exploded from inside the mansion. The quartet transitioning into Auld Lang Syne.

"Happy New Year, brother mine." 

Sherlock looked up at his brother, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Happy New Year."


	7. Chapter 7

Sweeping on the coat, then the scarf, and opening the bedroom door just enough to get out but not enough for it to squeak, Sherlock made his way down the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door without stepping on a single creaky floor board. The wind blew through him cold and cutting as he walked up the drive and put the gate. The night air was a relief, freedom. He walked down the sidewalks passing the houses of neighbors he cared not about, all quiet and darkened windows. His steps on the concrete and the wind rustling the trees were all he could hear. That was all he wanted to hear. Eventually, as he neared the small park a ways away from his home, he slipped a cigarette from the pack in his coat and lit it. Reaching the park he walked onto the grass to the wooded area and the hidden bench he so loved. His retreat. His mind was quiet here with the sense of freedom, release. A plume of smoke he blew towards the starry sky, tilting his head back looking up at the vast emptiness. Alone. A second cigarette was lit a while later. And then a third. Then he got up, the night having become almost unbearably cold, and began the walk home leaving behind him a trail of cigarette butts and unspoken thoughts.


	8. A meeting (Part 1)

It was not out of the ordinary for Sherlock Holmes to be lieing on a bench reading a scientific periodical between busking periods outside of Saint Bart's Hospital. It was, however,  _completely_ out of the ordinary for Sherlock Holmes to be caught off guard and even more so by an apparently uninteresting, common passerby. So, when a blond a year or two older than himself sat down on the few inches of bench at the end of his feet he could do nothing but stare at the end of the sentence he had just read, unable to even blink. He was unable to breath (and did his heart stop? No, illogical) when the boy muttered a "Hullo". Somehow beyond his now frozen brain he heard himself mutter a "Hello" back.

"John."

"Sherlock."

"Strange name."

_Was this a conversation? With a complete stranger?_

Sherlock finally drew his eyes up from the page and looked at his companion. 

"Where's your sister?"

The boy sputtered, "Sorry, what?"

"Your sister. Younger than you, shorter by four, no, five inches. Blond hair." 

"Inside and how could you possibly-"

"Here visiting you mother. Father is semi out of the picture- he's always at the pub. Alone. Comes home only to berate your family- mostly likely you're the common target. Yes, you  _are_ the common target. Oh let's see, you want to study medicine and math is really not your strong suit. You haven't eaten yet, hungry?"

"That, whatever that was, was amazing."

"That's not what people usually say."

"What do people usually say?"

"Piss off."

Then, this John, _laughed_  and Sherlock had to shut the periodical. And he stood up, grabbed the violin case, and headed off towards the nearest cafe. John was hurriedly following behind, just as Sherlock knew he would. 


	9. A Meeting (Part 2)

Sherlock sits at a table a ways away from the front of the shop, a darkish corner that he's rapidly rethinking. John follows behind, goes to the counter and orders- two cups of tea. He brings them to the table and sits across from Sherlock handing him the cup.  
"Black. Didn't know what you'd like."  
Sherlock hums in reply and stares down at the mug. English Breakfast. Of course.  
They sit in silence for a while, sipping the tea.  
After a while, John finally speaks "So you play."  
Another hum.  
"Classical, right?"

"Punk actually." Sherlock looked up from staring into the depths of his tea and fixed John with a dead on stare instead, "Wasn't that obvious?" 

"Git." John gave him a lopsided smile.

"Chopin, Tchaikovsky, Stravinsky to answer your question."

"I know nothing about classical music."

"Well you should learn. It's rather elegant."

John hummed and sipped his tea. Sherlock leaned back and regarded him with a long look. After a minute he looked about to say something but the silence continued. 

"I really should be going." 

"Busy?"

"Well, yes."

"Boring."

John huffed a laugh. 

"Sit here as long as you like then. See you around." 

"Where's around exactly?" asked Sherlock cockily.

"You're the genius. Figure it out. Ta." And with that John got up from his chair and left. He had left his cup of tea and Sherlock almost called after him until he saw that there was a number written on it. And then, Sherlock grinned in what must have been the most maniacal expression he had ever had in his entire existence. 


	10. Chapter 10

_a single drawn out note- an F sharp on the E string_

  
Staring into the blackness above his head, he listened and thought. Swirling around him were seemingly unending possiblities. He could do anything. He could become a dancer, a concert pianist, a scientist, a philosopher, an artist- anything. He wanted to run in the minute. Wanted to run to the distant dormers of the Earth and discover, uncover all he did not yet know. There must be beauty out there in the vastness beyond the ivy covered walls of the grand estate. He could run until Mycroft could no longer see him, until his father could no longer hunt him. Alone- a wanderer.

 _a crescendo, repeating notes behind it, a crescendo of desperation_  
  
For now into the indeterminable future he would stay- still and confined. Because all else where only childish dreams with no basis in reality. Not that that would stop him- in time.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock was making tea. Well, to anyone who might stumble in the unlocked, slightly open door it would appear that he was making tea- green tea precisely if they were keen enough, or rather sane enough, to notice. With the company around him in the dingy set of flats that was not very likely. And that was why Sherlock was not making tea. Actually he was waiting for DI Lestrade to show up and take him away from this vile place and let him kip on his couch while he got clean. And nothing about that made him feel well at all, so he was working to make it look like he was _fine._ He wasn't, but Lestrade had only just been promoted to DI and Sherlock was weighing his chances about staying here. Because he it was his choice, his whole life and every thing he did in it was his choice, and that wasn't going to change. He had chosen this vile place and this repulsive life that was actually not so bad.

_That's ignoring the overdose last week no one knew about and the man who came and left within an hour leaving you a horribly large amount that you took to forget the entire event and the fact that the only thing you've eaten in four days was a slice of toast that you swiped from Lestrade's plate when you met him in that diner to discuss the last case you solved and also when you agreed to get clean._

The water had boiled and Sherlock poured it into the mug, breifly tempted to just dump the water onto his feet, because _would that stop this horrid noise?_  He didn't though, because he's sensible and logically it wouldn't have really fixed anything, only have made it more bareable for a few seconds before making it completely unbearable. He rested his head against the cabinet over the counter inhaling the scent of green tea as it steeped. It was too much. The light and the scents and the noise and the fabric of his shirt and his thoughts and-

"Ready mate?" Lestrade had appeared in the kitchen sometime without Sherlock noticing and was leaning against the door jam trying to appear casual- horrid. 

"I'm fine and clean- did it on my own you can test me if you like. So there's no need for me to go with you." Sherlock thought he sounded reasonable and he wasn't lying, he was clean, he just wasn't planning on _staying_ clean. 

"You should at least get out of this place for a bit, get away from it all, you know?" 

"I'll look for another flat." Sherlock conceded. Lestrade's expression showed that he realized he wasn't getting anywhere with this conversation and that Sherlock was definitely not coming with him.

"Sherlock, I'm trying to help."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Don't need it. Just keep me on at crime scenes and I'll be fine." 

"Try getting a flat mate, might help." Lestrade said as a finality, pushing off the door jam. "Take care of yourself and I'll call when we got a case." 

"No way you'll solve it without me." Lestrade flipped him off over his shoulder before leaving the flat. _Now,_ thought Sherlock, _where the hell am I going to get a flat I can afford?_


	12. Chapter 12

In the biting cold and under washed out starlight, Sherlock walked. He wasn't going anywhere particularly. Well, he might have been on a route to his dealer but he hadn't  _meant_ to be. No, this was just a relatively empty road and he could wander as he pleased. He'd knicked a pack of cigarettes from someone at school and was now half way through it. Nights, Sherlock liked to think, were for him alone. And upon discovering the relative calm he felt in the witching hours, his sleep had become abysmal but the feeling of lifelessness had receded somewhat. Which was a good payoff, wasn't it? The cigarette warms him slightly, but the chill is hardly held off by the thin coat he's wearing. It doesn't matter. It would seem, he thinks as he passes a couple walking on the opposite side of the road, that he doesn't matter. He has after all just walked out of his home and encountered no obstacles in doing so. He could be gone for days and not be missed. Perhaps weeks if he got the timing right. The only problem with this peace is that is so quickly dissolves and is replaced by a gnawing in his chest. It's not loniliness, not exactly. It's just the death of stars that still burn brightly and the embers of cigarette ash on the ground that go out as quickly as they were sparkling. He doesn't think about that though. Not at all. It's an abyss and he'd much rather consider the violin composition he is working on and the steady, all too realiable beat of his heart in his chest. He slumps against a buildings front for a moment to light another cigarette. Suddenly he's overcome and finds himself unwilling to move, unwilling to breathe, unwilling to think. Because  _this is too much._ He wants to collapse and that is not right. He mustn't allow himself. Weakness is not permissible. Father's voice was ringing in his head, overlaid with Mycroft's and that really is too much. So, not caring about drowning, he slides down the brick front of the building onto the concrete sidewalk. And then he is drowning. So much that the water is overtaking him. It's all overtaking him and he can no longer think. Can't see. Everything is blurred and it must end. It must end.


End file.
